


Bruce Wayne Is...

by RAW_SYNTH3TICA



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman Begins (2005)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father Figures, Heavy Angst, Heavy Petting, Kissing, M/M, Male Slash, Nipple Play, Nipple Torture, No Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sensuality, Sexual Tension, Temporary Amnesia, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 03:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3513467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RAW_SYNTH3TICA/pseuds/RAW_SYNTH3TICA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once settling into his role as Batman, Bruce Wayne grows tired of juggling his personalities of protecting Gotham & being perfect for the world, Alfred helps him see that there is another he can share his true self with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruce Wayne Is...

**Author's Note:**

> ALL IS FICTIONAL & NOT MINE.
> 
> Ten years later...this infuriating fic is Finally finished!  
> ~at long last, enjoy!

Serving justice and revenge were on the same dish temperature, or so Bruce thought as he trudged up a narrow pathway, he clutched a blue flower in his hand at first, then placed it in his knapsack slung over a shoulder, he first wondered where and when life had begun to be so difficult. Gotham in its entirety made the collective excuse that it was the tragic loss of his parents, at least those with both privilege and respect for both Mister and Missus Wayne whom had no qualms defending their righteousness, and those merely pitying the boy for his age and inexperience in running the Wayne company, crime families only thought of the child as an easy target and left him alone in his time of mourning. As he grew and shed his innocence of a childhood which was never complete, Bruce was forever pushed on by his butler Alfred, once in a while coming upon a disagreement and easily once more treating the gentleman with the respect he fully deserved, the elder man was soon seen as the kin Bruce wished he was related to, their non-familial bond all the more isolating him in a city too vast to be ruled by a child. 

He tried as best as he could, graduating junior high and high school with top honors both academically and in extracurricular activities, suddenly all was lost the second semester of Princeton Law, it all began with his question: 

“Are justice and revenge the same?” 

“Intent for either make each outcome unique, thus changing You in the event.” 

“I won’t change. Resolve derived from pain, tragedy and fear may make decisions more reckless and dangerous, but revenge to me does not ensue death. No one should live or die unpunished for their crimes.” 

“By your will?” 

“By a fair and just system not left to me or decided by me.”

“Revenge cannot be confused with justice, and justice cannot be served without revenge. Systems left to those outside of the League of Shadows are more than fraudulent by their own right as we both understand, Bruce.” 

“Even then, I believe there are those out there sharing our ideals and I trust their judgment.” 

Bruce changed, his resolve solidifying to question both Justice and Vengeance, all the more driving him to insanity after saving his mentor from the burning mountain haven. 

\--- 

Night never seemed to end in Gotham’s illustrious expanse and since becoming ‘Batman’, Bruce liked it that way. Seamlessly blending into the spaces scarcely lit by yellow-capped lights and blinking fluorescents, melting away like rats in the sewers, fading away like cigar smoke wafting from Mafioso on the job, then tearing at street thugs like a starving dog does to meat on the bone, breaking him away from the memory of himself; the scared little boy who fell. Whereas in his now past life, he lived as a spoiled socialite; fraternity parties 24/7, line aside line of girlfriends and swooning hopefuls, more than equally overindulged friends, not a worry in the world besides what happened outside his manor and inside the still broken well. After breaking his barriers of what was limited to him, Bruce Wayne became a vigilante. Powerful, meaningful, purposeful, a well-hidden tool against crime, strength lying in wait behind two masks, one of Batman for destroying infamous reputations and the other Bruce Wayne for building one. 

The two are one, peacefully and sometimes complimenting as they co-existed and twined into one single person, the individual they both were right now, the Dark Knight meeting Gotham’s Nightlife Incarnate halfway; Bruce reclining in his full-body under gear against the Wayne manor foundations. He stood examining the shadowed Underground Railroad running from one end of the pitch cave’s ceiling to the other, tracks dripping and railroad spikes rusting from the chilling humidity which dampened anything within the expanse. The man standing under hunting bats watched intently, the winged mammals squeaking and dodging the crisscrossed wood and stone more easily, and with far less inelegance than Bruce had with half rotten luck this night. He coughed after his longing draw in breath tickled a bruise on his right ribcage and upper left shoulder blade, then came a helping hand to aid his idle busybody off the cemented ground. 

“Master Wayne,” Alfred murmured, hauling part of the young man’s bodyweight onto himself, the steady hands pulling a trolley cart behind as they made their way to the elevator, “Come, I’ll run you a bath.” 

On their ascent to the Wayne Manor’s first floor, the manservant had already unlocked the suit’s clasps and tossed each newly loosed fragment into the cart at their side. Bruce let himself be undressed since he knew that the fight against undressing himself was lost when he allowed himself to be helped by staggering alongside Alfred to a corner, to his partially-concerned horror, the elder man uncovered more bruises and reopened stitches than either cared to count. The old wounds stung and enveloped Bruce with far worse pain than the ones he received not hours ago, with some condolence, he reasoned that ignorance granted him bliss when it came to Treating the injuries. A hiss escaped him as Alfred unzipped his dark gray full-body jumpsuit, which served as a barrier between the actual armor and his skin. 

“Yesterday’s was worst compared to this, Alfred. It doesn’t hurt,” Bruce mumbled, his sore legs and lower body being assisted into the already full tub of heated water. He settled in deeper and held on to his manservant as his upper torso submitted gratefully to being gently dipped in completely, he emerged to a warm towel whisking water off his face. 

“Rubbish, poppycock and bollix, Master Wayne,” the butler said, lifting and examining two horribly bruised and marred arms out of the tub, “Do you so much as enjoy obscuring your internal pain with bruises and blood until I can’t tell your insides from the outs?” 

“Not now, Alfred, please,” the young man pleaded as he took his examined limbs out of the manservant’s hands, he leaned deeper back into the tub into the sloping headrest. The bath’s herbal remedial properties became evident the more he let his muscles and senses wander. 

“My apologies, sir,” Alfred whispered and stood from the foot of the tub, retreated to his nearly forgotten duties, “Your wheatgrass and protein prune juice is ready.” 

“Alfred?” Bruce grasped at the elder gentleman’s arm before he left. 

Telling by the young man’s troubled expression, he knelt beside the occupied bathtub to soothe away more psychological bats that accumulated this night, he replied as if answering his deeply-rooted faith, “Yes, master Bruce.” 

Bruce had to let go of their eye contact, moreover, he could not force his fearful gaze to meet that of an honest one, the ones which could see right through him if he faltered. Alfred took a shaky shoulder and clenched cheek in his palm, making sure that the young Wayne heir knew where they both were, and that he was not alone on any level. Looming tempests years old came the fears build long ago from falling into the eventual darkness, into an embrace which inspired terror. 

“Was I wrong letting him live?” the young man slightly rasped in his self-centering realization of a cusp; the boundary he was teetering between putting on the mask to face the gangland, and taking off said mask to face the world. Albert held the soulfully depleted eyes, Bruce took the withered hand in his own sopped ones and struggled through his fatigue to ask one more question, one that meant to shift his entire viewpoint on the just and unjust, he whispered, “Was it wrong for me to save his life?” 

Alfred’s posture came crumbling down along with Bruce’s solid ideals, the manservant gave a pause to await certain tears to fall, but was instead met with the young man casting his reddened eyes aside in a depressed trance. The elder gentleman spoke and the crimson-rimmed irises found their way back to reality, “What had you to lose extending your hand to your troubled comrade?” 

“Bruce Wayne had nothing to lose, but Gotham nearly lost me,” the young Wayne heir answered, his voice wavering but solidifying the longer he held Alfred’s comforting hand, his foggy mind wandering back to how managing his city’s flaws exhausted his body and tested his durable fortitude. 

“May I be frank?” the manservant implored gently, the young man only squeezed their palms together knowing a lesson of the heart was to be passed unto him, whether he accepted the facts or not, “Bruce Wayne had everything to gain, and implicitly gave his friendship and kindness to his comrade. Without question, never once thinking of himself,” the words calmed him, but also the impartial depravity of whose life he saved, his oldest friend of the family further appeased his doubts, “That may have been the greatest gift of all, master Bruce. It’s nothing to be ashamed about.” 

“There’s no reason for guilt, master Bruce,” Alfred’s mild voice carried such a dark worry and temperate compassion that Bruce hung his head in shame for both not returning a peace of mind and deeper clarity of his whereabouts to his butler, “Pride, maybe; but please, for my sake, spare yourself regret. A life saved is a grateful debtor.” 

Subtle tenderness in Henri’s touch remained imprinted in his skin, as if his body remembered more than if his mind would dare to recall or even make a very possible, a nearly too plausible exaggeration of his mentor’s fondness for him. Though the man’s teachings were severe and painful, it taught him to trust in his own strength, to overcome his fears, to become an embodiment of his one true dread, he answered wholly believing so, “He rescued me from Gotham. I only saved his life…-” 

“Which cleans both your books of obligatory favors,” Alfred pieced the last half of the young man’s statement, he lightly urged their gazes to meet and hold candidly, “Master Bruce, it is an absolute pleasure to see you happy and knowing I caused it makes me even more thankful to be in the family Wayne’s service,” he added once easing Bruce’s unseen pain, “But nothing distresses me more than your deliberate sadness.” 

“Everything I do is not Deliberate,” Bruce drew away to hunch over his knees, his bruised arms encircling the tub’s porcelain lip, a danger seeping into his tone but just as quietly he whispered stonily, wondering why he was explaining to the one person who should have understood the most his predicament, “The only thing Intentional in my life is Batman’s survival and Bruce Wayne’s reputation.” 

“Right. Of course, master Bruce,” Alfred answered, his voice matching but still emitting clearly how immovably protective he was of his charge, referring to how the young man intentionally mutilated himself with the guilt of the late Mr. and Mrs. Wayne, “It is Calculated, I should say.” 

“I can’t change the past-!” the young man snapped at his unmoved butler, “I did not plan my mother and father’s death, Alfred! What happened, happened!” his hands cupping the sides of the tub squeezed around the edges, finally allowing himself to face a truth plaguing him, “The one chance I get to change someone’s fate, I did for Ducard because I love him.” 

“Exactly my point, sir,” the manservant softly beamed at the young man’s revealed sentiments, “Acting nobly as ‘Bruce Wayne’ and not a ninja vigilante of the League of Shadows is a better, brighter character to your story,” he stood and fetched a silver tray with two full cups of liquid mixture whilst adding kindheartedly, “Don’t spoil the ending for me, I’d rather take this journey along with this anti-hero and his butler, wouldn’t you?” 

“I’m sorry, Alfred,” Bruce whispered, he took the offered glass and took several quick draws, he laid a hand wearily over his brows, “I don’t know what came over me-” 

“Nonsense, master Bruce,” Alfred said, taking the tray in hand and bowing slightly, “Have a good night. Get some rest and I’ll be seeing you first thing tomorrow morning.” 

“Why? What for? Did I miss something?” the Wayne heir confusedly gulped on his drink, even more drawn to his manservant’s actions as he came near with a photograph and a small assortment of sample invitations. 

“Party planning for the latest flavor,” his butler answered, giving a name to the pretty face smiling on the photo, “Sabine Madison, sir, if you’ll politely recall.” 

“Oh, her,” he sulked in half-remembered responsibilities as Bruce Wayne, he tapped a gold-incursive and eggshell-colored invitation with an ivory candle seal, he sarcastically included before Alfred tucked away the selected summons palette, “Plan the party and book her two week’s stay at some exotic spa until she forgets the name of the resort, and the name ‘Wayne’.” 

“With pleasure, master Wayne,” the butler smiled enthusiastically to the notion, he set to work instantly and exited the shower room on his way to a line and to phone the printing press, and to get rid of the heiress whom he was none too fond of. 

Bruce settled deeper into the tub, numb to the warmth sluicing on his skin, the steam still making him feel as if he were in Gotham, breathing the cool viscid air, he blinked tiredly at the plain shower room built especially for his nightly returns. Creamy off-white tiles lined below his bath framed by the rusty grout, his blood, a cabinet of ointments made by Lucius Fox to combat most of the city’s rogue microbes, each bar-coded bottle in different states of emptiness, he kept no mirror, no furniture, not a single piece of décor or a reminder of his wealth. The water solution turned milky, his body finally having warded off a potentially restless sleep, he stepped out and padded under a single shower head, then began the process of stepping back into the billionaire playboy’s role. Most bodily traces of Batman washed away with the herbal bath, everything extravagant that could be put into a bottle, he anointed himself with and scrubbed until the Tibetan herbs became but a comforting film layered below a heavier elixir of cologne and rare additives. Alfred came in prior and left a tray with a single glass full of the juice, Bruce unthinkingly gulped down the mixture, he gargled an antibiotic rinse and spat before taking his clothes from the side of the sink. 

He pulled on his usually dim-colored night clothing consisting of only a crisp pair of pants, a plain shirt, and since it was to be cold that night, Bruce opted for his cashmere bathrobe and wrapped himself in the vaguely familiar, somewhat disturbing change in his Gothamite role, his nerves confused and only his mind ever understanding his personality as it came in the form of painful recollection, shards cutting through him and resettling back into place as mere silent images replaying over and over. He somehow grew to live with his mother’s screams, his father’s pleading for their lives and the gunshots which ended his childhood, and thrusting him into the life he now lived as a man crumbling beneath his own weight, only Ducard’s words giving him the strength to turn his fear into power over himself and his enemies. Bruce pushed through the door, closing the heavy wall back into place as he strode into the next room, his bedroom already warmed by a calmly blazing fire, dull shadows pulling at the edges of his room into the deepest shades of maroon obscurity as he drew himself to a seat close to the flames. 

The leather bound volume at his side on the low table not nearly holding his interest as the random patterns of yellowed tongues licking at the ceramic and ash-brick tiles of his chimney, he sighed, sinking into the plush seat, the sensations of weightlessness pulling him downward came rushing back, blowing invisible air along his skin, pulling invisible threads from his body, brushing needle-like wind currents through his hair. Bruce at first felt himself yell, his voice lodged deep inside his stomach and his spine twisting, his fingers clutching emptily into the cold dark, and there behind a pitch black curtain of silence came the chirping squeaks like a steel claw rasping over jagged stone. Closer the chirping came, ever more did Bruce wish he could open his eyes, he clasped his hands over his ears to shut out the sounds which only seemed louder, clearer, nearer and all the more angrier than he remembered. His hands scrambled backwards, his palms slipping on the wet floor, his shoulders bumping into the stone corner, he screamed his childish voice as a thousand claws pricked into his skin and drilled their high-pitched screeches into his ears, never once allowing him to forget their being imprinted into his memories. 

“Bruce,” the familiar voice called to him, wonderfully heavy and warm as it always had been, like a presence behind urging him gently forward into the threshold of peace brought only through meditation, yet he was lost in the silent darkness void of the creatures of his nightmares, that same sound whispering to him, “Bruce.” 

Most times, he found his way back to sleep after imagining that same voice wrapping him protectively, peacefully dozing until Alfred came the next morning as bright and soothing as usual, yet the latter was spent with Bruce waking right afterwards and cursing himself for loving a stranger whom was not completely unknown to him, he himself was unpredictable and completely at ease showing all he was capable of, all he was vulnerable of unlike how many perceived him as an unstoppable Wayne. He wished to be more like his own father the late Mister Wayne, but failed in the ‘wholesome childhood’ part of his earlier development, his heart was broken, unhealed and only two men in his life understood the pain of trying to live his life day to day; ignoring or at least masking the tragedy which lay constant beneath his fine suits and cologne, lurking and quietly laying itself to the crisp tone of his Princeton voice, the driving force a living cog and wheel churning his inner strength out of the fear he privately nurtured into the Batman. He thought to scream for Alfred before finding himself too deep falling into the labyrinth-cave, surrounded by winged devils scratching at his shielding arms, the legion-like sea of screeching drowning out his cries, the suffering gloom swallowing him alive - but there again was the voice, so clear as it always had been robust down to the whisper. 

“Wake up, Bruce,” the whisper breathing near Bruce’s forehead alas coaxed his eyes open, a dark silhouette seemingly weightless held him away from the until-then opaque dimness surrounding, “It’s only a dream. Wake up.” 

Unable to prove himself otherwise of the dream the phantom assured him of, he lifted the thick hood from the unmistakable shine of blue eyes, he swallowed the fear and trepidation keeping from revealing the stranger even more, overcoming his disquiet, he hooked a shaky right finger over the black cotton cowl and slowly eased the cloth away. Inch by inch exposed to him flooded him with relief, first as he made out the very contrastingly sharp and gentle details half alit by the dulling coals of the fire and the other half the faint glow of the moonless sky lending substance to the shadow embracing him, the thick arms clutching him away from the cold shutout obscurity, and ensuring him the warmth that more than once saved his life out on the Tibetan ice caves. A chill came over him as he remembered snow falling through the thin atmosphere, a healthy fire behind him dying away into a few wind-teased embers, and arms winding over his shoulders and shoulder blades as a thick sheepskin quilt covered their conjoint forms, his ear warmed by the hot breath, Bruce more than once nearly died not trying to kiss his mentor, and he trained himself to exhaustion in striving to rid himself of unhealthy wishes. In all his days being both Bruce Wayne and Batman, he had never felt so naked and exposed as he had at that moment, caught wishing for his mentor post-nightmare and winding down from his nightly sessions of healing Gotham’s wounds, and denying his own. 

“D-Ducard!” his voice always so sure broke as the sensation of his whetted loneliness was exploited, as if he were left without cue during a vital board meeting, again the last images of his mentor intending to kill him alongside the Gothamite ideals, Bruce more than ever wished this was an illusion brought on by his yearning where he would wake and miss his mentor’s guiding touch, because reality may seem better at satisfying his certainty, yet was as harsh and dark as the rest of the world veiled in crime and terror. 

Foolishly, he shut his teary gaze and pushed his nose into the shadow’s clothed neck, and accepted that if he was not in fact having the first of his sweetest dreams, then he would willingly accept the assassin’s sword in a death strike, and never again have to relive both his memories and recurring present, because at the moment, Bruce was tired as much as his youth would not suggest so readily. At least in private he could surrender himself to the assassin posed over him instead of suffering a defeat from one of Gotham’s progressively creative villains, and his name would go down in Gotham history with some dignity as opposed to having Alfred explain away to the pushy media of Batman’s suit and gear, he can die in peace if he chose to, Bruce was grateful for everything which he could have and in the least miserable for what he never did in his young life. Without the men in his life –the one gone years ago at the hands of a random thug, the one which lived in the mansion alongside him and the one which he was sure to never see again– Bruce could either count himself lucky or lost, he opted for confused being that he had no proper male role model to compare himself to growing up, only three men to parallel himself to, the vague memory of his father and two whom survived the worst trials of his own life. 

Little prepared him for the next sound which proceeded the breath against his ear, lightly swaying the dark strands cropped close to his nape as he gasped wide-eyed, “Bruce. Wake up.” 

The shadowed mouth descended upon him, Bruce moreover felt soft lips framed by many but feather-like hairs, maybe stubble if it were longer, pressing light kisses over his own slightly closed lips gasping into the air, so very gently he hoped what he felt was real, skin touching skin, breath huffing calmly and mingling with the other. He was at first unsure, his body unresponsive and mind left to trip over itself while he placed the voice somewhere he had heard it, it was too clear to be a dream and too close to be a memory, nearly too perfect to be reality, and maybe just a touch romantic enough to be fantasy, either way, Bruce accepted the tug on his heart and embraced everything before it crumbled back into the repeating nightmare. His arms wound around the broad shoulders, his body lifted weightlessly from the chair as he began kissing the warm flesh of the slightly opened corners of a mouth, the very edge of a hearty flavor permeated his lips, at first balmy and curling ever so faintly milky. Another memory came calling, placing him inside the League of Shadows hideout, the building heated and his muscles aching triumphantly as Ducard handed him a cup, he sipped trustingly earning him a tiny smile which he thought was merely the semi-present shadows playing tricks on him, later learning the drink was called butter tea. 

Beneath his lips, the face began to take shape, his lips kissing fleetingly over the very gentlest of slopes and hard panes which made the man above him whole, lines made from age and worry framed handsomely by the soft stretches of skin, he smelled ice and frozen soil, warm cotton and the embers off burned wood, remembering the one he saved from the cliffs, Bruce pulled back while half-sighing the name which pacified his cursed days and haunted nights, “Ducard.” 

“This is reality, Bruce,” the voice again came, the face emerging from the shadows and Bruce’s eyes adjusted to dark finally, distinguishing between the pitch black and shades of blue as they became half-lidded and corners crinkle slightly in a rare smile meant only for him, “Trust yourself. I’m right here where I’ve always been.” 

When had dreams become so real for the shapes to begin speaking back to him; he had no clue answering the self-appointed question. A blush crept up Bruce’s neck, making his skin tingle as he finally looked away and clasped a hand over his mouth, shocked to the core and unable to get his feet unto the ground, he felt like he was floating and struck by lightning at the same time for the embarrassment-tinged comfort he felt, almost as surely, Ducard cupped his face and turned him until he could fully, finally settle himself completely into Bruce’s waking world. Before Bruce could or even think to say a word, his lips were devoured, his nerves sparking and his face seeming as if to glow beneath his mentor, his breath turning heavy as it was stolen from his chest, his jaw dropped open to no invitation as his lips melded to the mouth brushing and sharing the airy sighs escaping. The taste deadened by the earlier antibiotic mouth rinse Bruce had taken earlier yielded completely to the earthy-honeyed taste Ducard fed him, reminding him of meals they had once taken together, the blood one another had shed through simple ninjitsu training and kata preparations, the sweet mountain water consumed after countless hours of meditation, he even tasted the dust upon the scrolls as much as the plain flavor of the crude onigiri and harvested seeds. Each had been made by his mentor as they had always trained isolated from the other men. Even then, Bruce had never felt so small in the world, yet just as equally independent as he had beneath Ducard’s apprenticeship. 

The silk sheets and heavy velvet duvet caressed against Bruce’s feet first, his back crushing the layers of comforters about his body, senses awakening and further tearing away what doubt his dreams had left for him, merely a film-like bewilderment and calm closing him off from the world while he alas had both opposing tangents brought together. Reality lost the unendurable ache it left upon his heart through his sour memories, dreams had also seemed as if to exhaust of the hazy enticement it once possessed and reined a hold on his business life, he lay at the center of the bed and was coaxed to roll unto his left side, nearly doubting himself until his back was met with a familiar warmth, the dark seemed as if to hum and shower the night with more stars than Gotham’s skylights had the power to extinguish, deep constellations danced before his eyes as they once had on the clearest night amidst the coldest autumn. A left arm lay cradling his head as the right brushed across his hip, the rough feel of padded gloves met his naked skin as Ducard gently brushed a single finger across the tiny indenture between his abdomen and pubic bone, he gasped out a moan as he both pressed himself up into the towering figure of his mentor and searched for the soft lips already kissing the right side of his face, openly revealing every tormented expression he once disguised by hours of false mindless smiling. 

His eyelids opened to Ducard whom gazed tenderly down at him, seeming as if to breathe in the many details of the surviving Wayne heir, Bruce leaned up, his lips closing perfectly against his mentor’s lips, again the brush of the gloved hand over his abdomen and sweeping up along his ribcage made him shudder against Ducard. The rough glove rubbing against his skin, the black cotton seeming as if to again mask the warmth of the hand away from him, he searched for the hand and pulled the glove off before parting his own robe and pulling up his shirt in invitation, which his mentor’s warm naked hand complied by sweeping from clavicle to ribcage, each finger awakening his skin in its warm trail, searching as if reaching through a veil faintly serving to make him all the more aware of his Mentor’s gentle touch. Encountering a new indenture here, a slightly larger muscle there, a more prominent vein elsewhere, which in turn made Bruce all the more grateful of his training, of the endless hours in which he honed his body into a deadly weapon all its own, the gratifying, wordless humming against his lips made no exception for his mentor had noticed as well, and appreciated each flex and flutter of his half-tense groups of sinew. As if he were beneath the hands of a critique, he suffered each feather-like caress lightly grazing his moistened skin, spreading the undisturbed droplets where they lay until enough accumulated to create a drop which Ducard’s bare fingers gathered, cupping the young Wayne heir’s pectoral, the middle, and last two fingers flexed like wind beneath arching wingtips mid-flight. 

A faint prick as if a seed took root in his spine bloomed a crimson petal of heat while Ducard spread open his lips with his tongue, painting the inner skin of his lip and tongue with the taste of creamed butter tea and the metallic tinge of frost, the mingling flavors brought back so many memories that Bruce inched closer to taste another stolen interval of their life as student and mentor, he twisted his body slightly in order not to hinder the deepening kiss, again the blossom of heat spearheaded him, his free right hand caught his Mentor’s wrist which manipulated his nipple with tender strength. Rolling, pinching, and giving the slightest of tugs which sent a needle stab of sensation through his body, the barb of new tingles spread throughout his chest as if rippling below his skin and concentrating itself between his legs. Tiny threads of warmth-encased pain thrummed in unison with his erratic heartbeat, paired and becoming one until he could no longer differentiate between the willing licks of strong fingers plucking at his nipple and the spreading heat of kisses being pressed unto the right side of his face, each brush of his Mentor's lips framed by the feathery brush of stubble, every gentle caress and brush of hands caused Bruce to feel as if he were drowning in a love so deep and tragic that he might die before ever catching his breath, death within the arms of the man he loved came as a welcomed thought, yet. 

Slowly, the pain melted from his chest as they became but two bright red islands upon his pale body, he shied away from Ducard as his Mentor began tracing his many ugly welts which crowded his entirety and overlapped until there was not one section unmarked by another's weapon or the latest in villain engineering, he took special care in not exposing his private suffering to the elite of Gotham for they gossiped and frowned upon those whom kept sumptuous scandals under wraps, especially the likes of the owner of their city. He bore each fingertip in the barest pressing lightly atop the haphazardly-healed scars, his head feeling weightless from touches so gentle that he thought them to be from those of a seasoned aficionado than an assassin, yet all the same, he knew he was being praised wordlessly from each killing strike which he had either halted in the nick of time or altogether carried as marks of discipline. He was a lone hunter in the night, devouring those whom preyed upon the weak and humble, giving justice a face to both spread the notion of safety and fear; it was possibly the one thing Ducard and himself agreed upon if not for executing those deemed unfit to live longer than their transgressions. A mind-numbing stab echoed from his right thigh as even the gentlest of brushes swept his limb, Bruce clutched his Mentor's sleeves reflexively, willing away the sharp agony radiating from a possibly-fractured femur, the only thing which kept him from outright alarming Albert and having himself being transported to the nearest hospital at nearly two in the morning. 

A last glimpse from his Mentor accompanied him through the lasting bit of consciousness as agony overwhelmed him, chasing away the memory of Ducard's touch, of the welcomed kisses and the peaceful distraction he had fallen volitionally a victim to, his mind growing distant and finally drawing to a close as he prepared for either the scream of his alarm or the harsh glare of the sun to wake him. For this moment, he found it within himself to forgive Ducard’s slightly skewed virtues, nearly, so perfectly, he almost wished he had killed the peasant at the League of Shadows' command, at the same time, never more was Bruce relieved for not falling unto his Mentor's footsteps. 

\--- 

“Good morning, master Bruce,” Alfred chimed, breaking wide the heavy curtains which were open hours prior; outside was a thin fog accompanying the sun's descent from the equally-cloaked Atlantic, a pre-winter chill breathed frost upon the corners of the glass which only fueled Alfred's need to broadcast the morning cheer, he turned toward Bruce's unusually placid form still tucked in and languidly spread beneath the covers, “I see you’ve had a good night, also.” 

“It’s not tomorrow yet,” Bruce grumbled, rolling unto his right side away from the bright gold washing across his window, he found his leg oddly missing the telltale bite of pain, yet wrote it off as his mind tiredly wrapped around the notion of opening his eyes. 

“‘Tomorrow, today, yesterday’ complain to someone not used to your unusual hours,” Alfred simply expressed with a lighthearted shrug, Bruce nearly cringed as his butler swiftly stripped away the coverlet while expecting the cold to grip his bones, strangely, he glanced up from his face-down position in the pillows to where his usually-cold fireplace blazed a happy flame which warmed the entire master bedroom, he accepted the lightly padded kimono as he lay contemplating his unusual dream, “From what I learned of your particular genus; sleep is a luxury only the inmates at Arkham can afford.” 

“All the things butlers promise…” Bruce mumbled into the pillows after donning the kimono, he waved his free hand dismissively at Alfred all the while intending to have a lazy morning punctuated by another listless interview and a dinner or two for charities, “Breakfast. Whatever there is in the kitchen.” 

“Right away, sir,” Alfred answered with what Bruce noticed was a Smirk of some sorts masked by a tight-lipped clearing of a throat, he knew it was too early for one of his butler's 'I told you so'-speeches, “Another thing: please remind your guest that there are enough statues out in the terrace,” Bruce's eyes shot open, nearly jumping out of his skin at the way Alfred kept his tone so leveled and free of sternness, as if it were a remarkable happening, “God forbid the headlines when they see a naked yogi consulting the angels of the birdbath.” 

“N-n-Naked?!” Bruce stuttered, he scrambled up from the center of the bed and nearly knocked over his manservant as he downed the morning elixir at his bedside with one gulp. 

“As a good jouster,” Alfred nodded in agreement, all the more riling Bruce's skipping nerves and fueling his imagination of a growing scandal that even his own great-grandchildren would never live down; infuriatingly still, Alfred said thoughtfully, “I wonder if he preaches the kind words of the swami.” 

“You’re kidding!” Bruce again uttered to Alfred's nearly-stifled delight, he bolted up from the bedside and grabbed his butler by the shoulder, he gasped breathlessly, “Please tell me you’re joking.” 

Alfred cracked a polite smile and whispered good-naturedly, “Indeed I am, sir.” 

“Get me in touch with Lucius-” Bruce sighed with relief, he pulled away and found that he did not know what to do with himself after all the excitement and rush of emotions, he strode to the fire in hopes of warming his numbed body drained of all energy and sensing that he was even more tired than when he had awoke, “-maybe he can cure me of my butler with too much free time.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” Alfred agreed, Bruce watched his manservant leave himself to the vast room and overwhelming isolation he had placed upon himself, yet the sight of Alfred standing soundlessly at his side placated him slightly, the question brought back all the misplaced memories, “Shall I put him with the gnomes, master Bruce? Your guest?” 

“Now, Alfred,” he answered before his butler got a change to see his reddened face. 

“Right away, master Bruce,” his manservant chimed, once more hearing Alfred's retreating steps echo near the door, “Or would he fit better in the oriental armoire along with the Dark Knight?” 

He raised his head from the flames to his manservant whom stood expectantly at the doorway, Bruce took a moment to wonder if Ducard had still practiced the ways of executing criminals or if they were compatible as a team, he knew that if he turned his Mentor away then he would have more vast problems to face than just creative villains and criminal hopefuls, he knew he would never forgive himself for denying a love he could not live without; he said, “Batman would like that…” 

“I knew as much, sir,” Alfred nodded, he watched the oddity of a butler he employed stride away reciting the morning's menu, “Protein shake, poached egg, toast…” 

“Alfred,” recalling his Mentor's particular tastes Bruce intervened, he requested, “Please have something special this morning, our guest’s tastes are of the finer orient.” 

“Excellent, master Bruce,” Alfred nodded, once more leaving Bruce with a hint of the menu and the accompanying silence of being left to his usually-chaotic thoughts, “Red tea, braised salmon, miso…” 

No more than an hour after sunlight burned away the last of the mist and leaving dew in it's wake, Bruce strode out through the vacant acres of his property, the sun's warmth touching him but unable to match the memory of his Mentor's caresses, each step bringing him closer to his meditative ground was another skipped beat of his heart. Fumbling with his sleep-pants, he found a crease which led to a bump over the center of his right thigh, he paused a moment as realization came within his grasp of the splint hidden beneath his clothing and the proof of his Mentor's loving presence – he came upon the grounds, a simple pagoda stood amidst the clearing beyond the manor's gates and gardens. His fingers brushed upon the sliding door, taking a deep breath, Bruce pushed the wooden door aside, revealing his Mentor's patiently awaiting form sitting before a low table littered with the foods promised by Alfred – all neatly clustered around a pair of empty bowls, he bowed courteously as did Ducard, he then knelt while his hands eagerly reached for the serving spoons so that he may provide for his master being that it was his duty as his Mentor's student. Unusually, Ducard halted his movements with a single sweep over the serving utensils, Bruce then sat quietly accompanied by their synchronized breathing and quiet clacking of the wood upon earthenware, lastly came the swish of tea through the pot's mouth into his cup – again, slow understanding dawned upon him: Bruce was no longer a Student, but an Equal. 

Mourning his passing through being a student he felt that the silence was amiable, even in the slightest unsettling for it was the beginning of what they had both hungered for, though immeasurable and unknown, they knew they both had a name for the sensation years old and years in the conception; Ducard said quietly as if speaking to a beloved, “Good morning, Fledgling.” 

“Good morning,” Bruce smiled at his private pet name from while he was under his Mentor's tutelage, “My love.” 

\--- 

Lucius untangled his hands from Alfred's as their meals reached their table, they had been in deep discussion about a new project so suddenly thrust upon them that both had canceled their other plans altogether, including Bruce's charity dinners, interviews and tour through the city with possible investors – everything suddenly had become doubly busy and more important than keeping Wayne Enterprise floating like a world-class business should. 

“Are you sure Bruce's 'spelunking suit' does not need more improvements? I can't be expected to patch up the defective one with duct tape and still call it 'safe',” Lucius said after taking a sip of coffee, he wondered when Alfred and himself had ever taken breakfast outside of Wayne Manor or if they had ever been alone – Never, he realized. 

“His current one is in slight need for repairs,” Alfred nodded, he took his offered cup from the tabletop where their waitress left their meals, once stirring in two cubes of sugar, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a leather folder, and slid the folder towards his fondly named 'play-date', “He provided us with designs for another 'spelunking suit', which he won't be using respectively.” 

He watched Lucius leaf through the pages behind a pair of specs, once in a while crinkling his wise brow in thought and lastly glancing up, Lucius asked incredulously, “For a partner?” 

“Precisely, Mister Fox,” Alfred beamed almost childlike as he took a leisurely sip of the Earl Grey tea, he then stated knowingly, “Bruce always did have a fondness for things he couldn't buy.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is one fic that i've spent the longest time editing on, but just decided to finish it once & for all at 4 in the morning...i still have a big ugly crush on Liam Neeson <3


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